


odds don't stack

by theundiagnosable



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, this story belongs in the ya section of chapters with poorly photoshopped cover art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: “You’re magic?”Mitch nods. “Are you freaking out?”“Just a little,” Auston says, really calm except for the fact that he’s maybe three octaves higher than usual.(or: Mitch is Lucky. No one’s quite sure if it’s a curse.)





	odds don't stack

**Author's Note:**

> see endnotes for warning

It’s not really a ‘once upon a time’ kind of thing, because as far as Mitch knows, he’s always been different. The first time he realizes it, though, he’s four years old and the guy at the rink is refusing to coach him because he’s too small.

“Come on,” his dad is saying, while Mitch stands on his toes and tries to spit over the boards like the Leafs do when he watches them on Saturday nights. He can’t quite see over the top. “Just let him show you, he’s good, Rob-”

“He’s barely three feet tall,” the guy on skates says, not unkindly, and he’s turning away, and Mitch is old enough to know that this means he’ll have to go back to the after school league at the rink near his house with the kids who can barely stand without holding the boards.

And he really, _really_ just wants to play hockey.

Two minutes later, he’s got his skates laced up and the guy – Coach Rob – is watching him dart up and down the ice. Change of heart, he’ll say later. Maybe fate, if he’s feeling nostalgic. 

Mitch doesn’t think anything of it. He wanted to play real hockey and now he is and that would be simple even if he wasn’t four years old. It’s not until a few days later that he even remembers that Coach Rob didn’t originally want to teach him, and then it’s only because something even weirder happens.

He wanders into the kitchen – Chris is hogging the TV and the neighbours he usually hangs out with aren’t home – and immediately zones in on the box of Chips Ahoy sitting on the counter. He stands on his toes to grab a cookie, even though it’s almost dinner and his mom’s two feet away making lasagna. He’s mostly expecting to get his hand smacked away from the box, because one of the few constants in his life so far has been ‘no snacks before dinner’, but Mom doesn’t notice.

Mom notices _everything_.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mitch teeters on his toes again and grabs another cookie.

Still nothing. 

Every time he reaches up to get a cookie, she’s looking away – out the window, or at the stove, or in the fridge. Anywhere but at him. At first Mitch thinks maybe she’s tricking him, playing a game even though he’s too old for this kind of stuff. He grabs a handful of cookies, as many as fit in his hand, testing. Isn’t even sneaky about it.

She still doesn’t realize he’s there, leaning down to get something from a drawer, so he just grabs the whole box and sprints up the stairs to his room. That’s where his mom finds him an hour later, clutching his stomach and trying not to cry ‘cause Chris’ll call him a baby if he does.

“My belly hurts,” he says, small, and his mom crosses the room to sit next to him on the bed.

“How many of these did you even-” Mom picks up the box and shakes it, hears nothing inside. She sighs. “Mitchell Marner, you know you’re not supposed to eat this many.”

She only calls him Mitchell Marner when he’s being bad. Mitch scrunches up his face – partly because he doesn’t like breaking the rules and making his mom upset, and partly because his stomach really hurts, and partly, he realizes in a leap of flawless kindergartner logic, because this is mostly her fault for not stopping him.

“You didn’t see,” he whines, miserable.

She scrunches up her face the same way he does. “I don’t know how. I was standing right there,” she says, and then it’s like she has a thought, because her face does something weird. Not mad, exactly – he doesn’t know what this face means. It’s kind of scary. He thought he knew all Mom’s faces.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, and sits up to hug her. His stomach still hurts. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, and pets his hair like he’s sick. He _feels_ sick, because chocolate chip cookies are a lot less good when you’ve eaten thirty of them, but he doesn’t think that’s why she’s doing it. 

Her and Dad explain it to him that night. Every night for a week after, too, because he’s got a lot of questions.

He’s Lucky, they tell him. Capital L-Lucky, same as every youngest child in the Marner line for as far back as Marners go. Lucky, his dad explains slowly, means that people like him right away, and good things happen, and more often than not, stuff goes the way he wants it to.

“Like Mom with the cookies,” Mitch says, intrigued enough by the thought of getting whatever he wants to pay attention. “And Coach Rob.”

Dad nods. “Exactly,” he says. “You see why you need to be careful?”

“’cause hockey’s a dangerous sport and everyone else is bigger than me,” Mitch recites, like he’s heard a million times. His parents sigh, exchange looks.

“No, buddy, you need to be careful because sometimes...” His dad stops for a while, looks really serious. Mitch copies his serious face. “Sometimes for you to get what you want, other people have to do things they wouldn’t want to do. And that’s not okay.”

Mitch thinks about that for a couple of seconds, then gets distracted pulling at a thread in his blanket. His parents are still looking at him, though, all waity, so he says, “So I’m magic.”

“Yeah,” his mom says, gentle. She still looks a little worried. “You’re magic.”

Mitch smiles, lies back on his pillow for them to tuck him in. “Cool.”

And it is. It’s like a story, except it’s him, and that’s pretty awesome even if he’s not allowed to tell anyone. So he pesters his parents with questions for a week, sees how many more cookies he can steal without getting caught, and then the Adamses down the street get a new ball hockey net, which is _much_ more exciting, and that’s that. 

\-------

He’s not always, like, entirely blasé about the whole magic thing.

Mitch understands better when he grows up, how big of a deal it is. It’s just- even once he has a name for it, knows how to spot the signs, things aren’t any different from how they’ve always been. He’s a lucky kid, and then he’s a Capital-L-Lucky kid, and nothing really changes.

It’s mostly these little things, stuff he could almost chalk up as coincidence, like always winning at monopoly, or the people ahead of him in the drivethrough paying for his order at least once a week; his teammates sharpening his skates so he won’t have to, or a ref leaning in his favour on an iffy call.

His Luck isn’t, like, all-powerful. Can’t immediately turn him into the next Sidney Crosby, which he knows because he skips practice for two weeks in eighth grade to goof off with some guys from school and ends up getting winded thirty seconds into his first shift back, fumbling an easy pass. The hockey thing is _him_ , is what that means, and Mitch can’t help feeling proud of that, even when the coach is chewing him out in front of his teammates. He’s good at this, not just lucky.

But he’s that, too.

People like him. He’s not sure if that’s because of the Luck or because of who he is. Maybe a bit of both, he suspects, because he doesn’t _try_ to make people act one way or another with him, but they keep on ruffling his hair and letting him cuddle them and calling him a ‘sweet kid’ even when he cracks 5’8’’. Chris says it’s ‘cause he’s skinny. Chris is kind of an asshole.

Mitch just does his best to be a good friend. If he’s subconsciously magically making people like him, he figures, might as well make things pleasant for everyone involved.

He likes to test it, sometimes. To see how far he can push it before something gives. Always goes up against the biggest guys they’re playing, battling for the puck and winning more often than not. His parents give him crap for being reckless, and he gets pushed around maybe more than his fair share, but none of the doomsday shit that the scouting guys predict is going to happen because of his size happens. Not even close – heading into the draft, top ten’s a certainty, top five a close thing.

The Toronto Maple Leafs have the fourth pick.

Mitch wants to play for the Leafs more than he’s ever wanted anything in the world.

He’s never tried for something this big before, but he does, focusing on storing up every bit of Luck he can and pushing it towards what he wants. He’s not sure if magic’s really the kind of thing he can save up, but he tries anyways, makes a million different bargains with anyone who’s listening; thinks, hard _, I want them to pick me_ every night until the draft. 

Even with all that, when the Leafs call his name, it takes Mitch a second to get to his feet.

It worked. It actually worked.

“Holy shit, Marns,” Stromer says, exuberant in a Yotes jersey and ball cap, hugging him close in a stranglehold once he makes his way backstage. He’s basically jumping up and down. “You’re the luckiest sonofabitch in the world, you know that?” 

And Dyls doesn’t know about the Luck thing, of course he doesn’t, but when he says that Mitch looks down and realizes with a start that he’s wearing a blue and white tie. And it’s like his Luck is laughing at him, with that, like _was there ever really a doubt_.

\-------

It’s a really fucking good year, even if he’s not technically on the Leafs yet.

He wins the Memorial Cup and the MVP. Gains fifteen pounds and two inches. He’s still smaller than, like, everyone, but- it’s something. A lot of somethings, actually, and they’re all good, but it still feels like it’s all leading up to him putting on that Leafs sweater for camp in August. 

Mitch is _ready_. He’s been waiting for this since he got drafted, for his whole life, technically, and he’s not even nervous until he pulls into the Players Only part of the parking lot on the first day of camp and it finally hits him that he’s a hair’s width from the NHL.

He stands next to his car for too long, trying simultaneously to hype himself up and chill the fuck out before he gives himself a heart attack. He thinks, in passing, how much nicer it’d be if he didn’t have to walk in alone. He’s not even really concentrating on it, not trying to will it into happening, but it does anyways. Luck’s funny like that. 

“Shit,” he hears from a few cars away, shattering the silence and making him jump. The voice is familiar, so Mitch goes to check it out. ‘It’ turns out to be Auston Matthews, standing next to a rental sedan and dabbing at his shirt with wadded up paper napkins. He doesn’t seem to notice Mitch.

“Morning,” Mitch says, and kind of lingers a few feet back, because they’ve hung out at a couple of mandatory team meet-and-greet things but he’s not sure if they count as friends yet. 

Matthews looks up when he talks, startled. “Oh,” he says, and looks relieved that it’s not a reporter. “Hey, uh-”

“Mitch,” Mitch supplies helpfully, and Auston levels him with a look like he’s thinking about rolling his eyes and only deciding against it because they don’t know each other that well.

“I remember your name,” he says, like _duh_ , and follows Mitch’s gaze to the giant stain on his shirt. “I just- I spilled coffee all over myself,” Auston explains, a little awkward. “Lid came right off my mug, I’m never usually this clumsy...”

He shoots a betrayed look at his travel mug, balanced on the top of the sedan, and Mitch feels kind of guilty. He’s familiar enough with his Luck to know that this was its way of slowing Auston down, giving Mitch someone to walk in with the way he wanted. 

Matthews is still sponging at his shirt, even though even Mitch can tell it’s pointless. That stain’s not coming out any time soon.

“Fuck,” Auston says decisively, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “That’s embarrassing.” He glances over at Mitch like he’s just remembering that he’s there, gives the single most forced smile Mitch has ever seen, ever. “Hell of a start, huh?”

His mouth is all tight at the corners, and it does something weird to Mitch’s gut, because he doesn’t know this guy for shit but he _knows_ , all the same: Auston Matthews, number one draft pick and master of the detached one-liner, is nervous.

Mitch has the weird urge to hug him. He doesn’t, obviously, because that’d be super freaky, just reaches out and pats his shoulder, trying to sound reassuring. “Hey, no,” he says, easy. “It’s, like. A new trend. Arizona style.” 

Auston does not look remotely comforted, so Mitch thinks _screw it_ , grabs Auston’s travel mug and sloshes whatever’s left inside onto his own shirt. 

“There,” he says, watching the coffee stain spread across his chest and flashing Auston a grin. “We match. Not embarrassing anymore.” 

Auston blinks, stunned, then laughs, this surprised thing that seems to bubble out without his permission. It occurs to Mitch that, of the three times they’ve met, this is the first time he’s heard Auston laugh. It’s nice. 

“Know what _is_ embarrassing, though?” Mitch goes on, not waiting for an answer. “That car. Who the fuck drives a Honda?”

“Shut up, it’s a rental,” Auston says, and falls into step next to Mitch while they head for the door, matching wrecked-shirts and all. Then, unexpectedly: “Least I don’t need a step stool to get into my car.” 

Mitch’s eyebrows fly up. “Short jokes?” he says, and can’t hide a smile. Auston didn’t seem like the teasing type. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”

“That’s how it’s gonna be,” Auston says, and he elbows Mitch so Mitch elbows him back, and they’re grinning at each other all dumb, and Mitch is pretty sure they’re best friends from right then and there.

It’s maybe weird that he knows that so soon. It’s true, though: they’re attached at the hip all week, testing their footing with the other rookies – ‘cause there’re _so_ many, it’s crazy – and exploring the ACC. Mike Babcock comes and gives everyone a pep talk, tells them they can call him Mike in a way that suggests that the first person to call him Mike will be doing suicide sprints for the rest of camp. Auston and Mitch spend almost an hour that night doing their best impressions of his voice over Skype.

It’s just. Easy. And, okay, friends are usually easy for Mitch, ‘cause people like him and he likes them back, but he and Auston just _fit_ in this way that he can’t really describe, so he stops trying to.

They play some fucking beautiful hockey together.

Mitch knows he does well, knows people are talking, seriously, about him making the team. He brings it up with Coach anyways, at the end of the week, because he’s never been particularly patient.

“You’re good, Marner.” Babcock says, still looking at his clipboard. “You’re really good, but your size-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mitch says, because he thinks he’ll actually for real die if he makes it this close and has to go back to London again. “I- sorry for interrupting, Coach, but it doesn’t matter. I promise, I’ll show you.”

Babcock just looks at him, long and scrutinizing. Mitch feels all of four years old again, three feet tall and standing in front of Coach Rob begging to be allowed to play with the big kids. 

It should bother him more, that he doesn’t know whether it’s because of his playing or his conversation with Coach or his Luck, but two days later they release the roster for the season opener and it’s official, he’s a Toronto Maple Leaf. _Him_.

The why doesn’t matter so much, after that. 

He and Matts scream at each other on the phone for a solid three and a half minutes, once the list is out. Mitch doesn’t really get why Auston’s so hype, ‘cause him making the team was never really a question, but he’s _so_ excited anyways, this crazy-enthusiastic happiness that feels like something secret Mitch is getting to see. They fit together like they’re supposed to, and someone accidentally delivers a pizza with Mitch’s favourite toppings right to his door, and this-

This is going to be _awesome_.

\-------

Mitch knows better than anyone that magic isn’t anything close to the way it looks in movies. It’s less dramatic backstories and dashing underdog heroes, more vaguely defined rules and a bunch of coincidences that everyone just kind of accepts. And he _knows_ that, right, but- fuck, if this season isn’t making him wonder.

It’s almost too good to be true, the way stuff falls into place. It’s the Leafs’ centennial season, an even fifty years since a cup and now everything at once, the young guys tearing it up, vets getting their shit together. And it’s too early in the season to expect anything, obviously, but people are talking about playoffs and it doesn’t even feel like a stretch. Mitch believes them.

They show this feature on Leafs TV, something about a curse by a former Leaf getting lifted this year. Mitch watches it and laughs, alone in his living room, because he’s not sure if they’re right and their year’s because of an absence of bad luck or an excess of Capital-L Luck, but also not sure it matters. They’re _good_.

Matts is in the Calder discussion from their very first game. More surprising, though, is that Mitch hears his own name come up more than once, enough that Auston brings it up when they’re driving back from practice.

“You’re leading all rookies for points,” he says, and Mitch kind of glances at him without taking his eyes off the road, because he’s not sure if this is going to be a competitive thing or what. He and Matty usually leave hockey stuff at the rink.

“Yeah,” he settles for saying, pretty neutral. Then, because neutral is really not his style: “I’m basically a god.”

Matts kind of snorts. “You’re so dumb.”

“Don’t be jelly, dude.”

“No, but see, that’s my point,” Auston says, and he’s got that kind of frowny look that means he’s trying to feel a human emotion. “I’m not? Like, I would be, usually? But I’m just really psyched for you, man.”

Mitch turns to look at Auston for real this time, kind of taken aback. There’s no trace of irony on Auston’s face, just this sincere thing that makes Mitch’s heart grow a million sizes. “Aw,” he says, a little flustered. “Matty, that’s super nice.”

“Okay,” Auston says, flushing furiously. “Now shut the fuck up and focus on driving, moment over.”

“Matts!” Mitch says, gleeful. “We were having a _moment_?”

“Ugh,” Auston says, and turns to look out the window, but he’s still blushing right up to his ears, and Mitch can still see him smiling. And as far as moments go, Mitch thinks, that was a pretty good one.

\-------

“How come you never pick up?” Matts asks, one night when they’re back on Mitch’s couch after going out with the guys. It’s not totally out of the blue – they were giving Willy shit earlier for making eyes at three different girls across the bar, only mollified a little when two of them giggled and made eyes right back – but Mitch is a little caught off-guard anyways.

“C’mon,” he says, trying to brush it off, but Auston’s looking right back at him, clear-eyed.

“How come?” he repeats, like he actually wants to know, and it’s- having all of Auston’s attention on him like this feels big, like it always does, except Mitch can’t tell him. Not this.

He’s kissed exactly one person in his life, back when he had a crush on Ava Fiorello in seventh grade. He thought Ava was the prettiest girl in the _world_. Super out of his league, even then.

All he’d been able to think about was how much he wanted her to like him back. She _had_ liked him back, he thought, because she asked him to a movie and kissed him when it was done, while they were waiting for her parents to pick her up. 

And the kiss itself was kind of iffy, because Ava still had her braces and Mitch was making up for lack of experience with embarrassing amounts of enthusiasm, but none of that mattered because he was so, so excited. Like, mentally doing the fist pump thing from The Breakfast Club excited, thinking about how they’d go to prom together in high school and probably get married and be amazing at their class reunion; except then Ava pulled back and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she said, and she looked kind of grossed-out, but worse, _scared_. Mitch walked her to her car then went and cried in the closest bathroom.

That’s when he learned that if he decides he wants someone, wants them enough, they’ll want him back, at least for a while. It's, like, the magic equivalent of putting something in someone’s drink, and the idea of being that kind of person makes Mitch kind of sick.

So he just- doesn’t, anymore. Safer that way.

It makes sense, probably, that there’d be this kind of trade-off for the Luck thing. Only fair.

“Not all of us are as slutty as you,” he says instead of all that, and Auston rolls his eyes, oblivious.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles good-naturedly. “You’re probably such a virgin, too.”

“Promise to rescue me if anyone tries to sacrifice me in a volcano?” Mitch asks, leaning on Matts’ shoulder, and Auston gives a long-suffering sigh but leans a little closer to Mitch anyways. 

“Cross my heart,” he says, and he’s being all sarcastic, but that’s just him; and they stay with their sides pressed up close to each other, listening to the traffic outside, and that’s just them.

\-------

It’s embarrassing, the way they’re playing against the Habs. Like they’ve time-travelled back to the beginning of the season, when none of them knew each other and passes wouldn’t connect and the Leafs were still the biggest joke in the league. They look like a joke, tonight.

Halfway through the second, Mitch is digging for the puck in the corner when Galchenyuk’s stick comes up and hits him, right in the mouth. And it’s an accident, maybe, except the guy kind of grins. Mitch can taste blood, and he can hear Bozie shouting at the ref for a call, but there’s no whistle.

He gets to the bench clutching his mouth and cursing. Coach is still yelling at the refs, and Marty’s glaring at the guy who hit Mitch like he’s planning his funeral. Mitch barely notices, spitting out his mouthguard, and just sits there feeling his mouth throb.

He’s _mad_. It was a cheap shot, and they’re playing like crap, and it’s going to be the 12th straight win for the Habs. Press is going to fucking crucify them after the game, and his mouth really hurts and- 

A bunch of stuff happens at once. Mitch feels this energy around him, like something’s pressing into his skin and suddenly gets released with a ‘bang’; an instant later, the Montreal crowd lets out a collective gasp, and a whistle blows. Mitch looks out onto the ice only to see a bunch of guys in red jerseys helping another guy up. The last guy is unsteady on his feet, most of his weight on his teammates.

Mitch knows it’s Galchenyuk before he even sees his number.

They show the replay up on the big screen – there isn’t even anyone near him, he just loses an edge and goes straight into the boards, hard, out of nowhere – and Mitch has one second of this awful satisfaction, like, _good, he deserved that_ , before it settles into something ugly in the pit of his stomach.

It could’ve been a coincidence. Karma.

He knows it wasn’t either of those things. Knows, like something certain, that this was his magic. He was mad at the guy, he wanted him to hurt, and he did.

“Hey.” Reemer puts a hand on Mitch’s shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You okay, buddy? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Mitch says fast, which would probably be more believable if he didn’t scoot down the bench as far away from James and the others as possible. He can’t- this has never happened before, he can’t take any chances. “Is he okay?” 

James looks confused, like he wants to give Mitch shit for asking about a player on the other team, but Mitch must sound panicked enough that he doesn’t. “He’ll be fine, Marns.”

Mitch can’t even be relieved. He did this. He made someone get hurt without even meaning to, just ‘cause he was mad about getting high-sticked. He’s- what kind of awful person does that?

He’s on edge the whole rest of the game, scared to get too into it in case whatever it was happens again. It’s like, okay, he’s always known that his magic affects other people, like making Matts spill his coffee or getting people to pay for his drinks, but _this_. This isn’t okay.

They end up losing, bad, and Mitch flinches when Matts comes up and pats his back after the game.

“Woah,” Auston says, a little surprised. “Just me, dude.”

“Matts, you need to-” And Mitch has to cut himself off there, because- what’s he going to say? “You need to stay away from me in case my magic goes AWOL and I injure you, oh and by the way I have magic”? No one outside his family knows about his Luck. It has to stay that way. “I just need to be alone tonight, ‘kay?” he finishes, finally.

“Oh,” Auston says. “Okay.” He backs off pretty fast, probably – hopefully – thinks it’s just Mitch being upset at the loss. And he is, honest, but he’s also kind of freaking out about the possibility of accidentally hurting everyone he loves if they do anything to annoy him, and that wins by like, a lot. Mitch’d rather never play hockey again than hurt his team, than hurt Matts.

He texts Aunt Karen, the other youngest Marner he’s closest to, the second they’re on the bus to the airport. _did ur magic ever get stronger?_

She texts him back almost right away, _Not really? Kind of acted up sometimes I guess._

And ‘acted up’, that could mean anything.

His phone buzzes with another text _. Just gotta learn to manage it_. Which- she says that like it’s easy. Mitch doesn’t know _how_. He didn’t even know he could do this.

Shit.

\-------

Mitch doesn’t realize he forgot to pick up Auston ‘til he walks into the locker room.

He’s been in his own head since the Habs game, trying and mostly failing to get back that feeling he had before making Galchenyuk fall, the weird energy thing. It’s not an excuse – he walks into the room, and Willy asks, “Hey, where’s Matty?”, and Mitch’s whole stomach sinks.

“Oh, fuck,” he says. He’s been moving on autopilot, got into his car this morning and drove to practice without even thinking about it. Without remembering, apparently, that they’ve been carpooling all season. “Fuck, I’m such an asshole.”

He fires off a text to Auston as fast as he can, _sorrysorrysorry im at the rink i forgot_. Auston doesn’t respond, which means he’s either driving or more pissed than Mitch expected. He’s about to text again, but then one of the trainers is yelling at them to get on the ice and he has to scramble into his gear, feeling a little sick the whole time.

Matts gets onto the ice twenty-five minutes later, a little out of breath and looking like he’s doing his level best to go unnoticed, which is a real challenge when you’re a giant wearing three layers of padding.

Coach gives Auston shit in front of everyone, really unloads on him, blusters about responsibility and letting down your team and scratching him for tomorrow’s game even though they all know that the day they don’t play Auston Matthews is the day hell freezes over.

Auston just takes it. He doesn’t even mention that it’s totally Mitch’s fault, which just makes Mitch feel like even more of a human trashpile.

“Okay,” he says, pushing his way to Auston’s side as soon as they’re heading back off the ice after practice. “Okay, I’m so, so sorry, I swear to god I was going to come get you, I don’t know what happened-”

“It’s fine,” Auston says, steady. His mouth is set in the same line it’s been in since Babs started ranting. “I shouldn’t be, like. Expecting you to drive me places.” It’s somehow worse, him being all resigned like this, than if he’d been yelling and pissed.

“Shut up, I’d drive you literally anywhere,” Mitch says. “I just forgot, I’m an asshole. Sorry.”

“It’s cool, Mitchy,” Auston says, but it’s still kind of guarded, enough that it hurts.

“Wait,” Mitch says, a little desperate. “Wait, just. Come hang out or something, let me make it up to you with food and video games.” Then, when Auston looks like he’s going to make some excuse, “Please?” Mitch grabs his sleeve, and Auston looks down at where their hands are almost touching before nodding, slow.

“Okay, man. Whatever you want.” It’s pretty weak when he returns Mitch’s smile, but he does. It’s something, at least.

Mitch chatters pretty much nonstop the whole drive home, and until they get up to his place.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll get us drinks, you decide what food we’re ordering.”

“Thai,” Auston says right away, because he knows that Mitch can’t stand peanut sauce and this is the one time he’ll be able to guilt him into agreeing. It almost feels normal, and it keeps feeling normal when Mitch rolls his eyes the way he always does.

“You’re awful,” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Water or Gatorade?”

“Water’s cool,” Auston says, and it’s mild enough to fool Mitch into thinking that maybe stuff’s okay; only when he gets back to the living room, Auston’s wondered over to the little balcony. It’s more of a window ledge than anything, opens right onto the street. Mitch usually leaves the screen door open, which he’s going to have to stop doing, ‘cause the weather’s starting to turn.

“You can close it, if you want,” he says, and Auston hardly glances at him over his shoulder.

“’s fine,” he says, and goes back to looking down at the street. 

That weight in Mitch’s stomach is back like it was maybe never even gone. He sets down their waters on the coffee table, comes to lean on the railing next to Matts, slow, hating how tentative he is. For a couple of seconds, they’re both just quiet.

“Sorry,” he says again, helpless. Auston doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“I told you it’s fine,” he says, even though he’s still standing a couple feet apart from Mitch, this too-deliberate distance.

Mitch sighs, fed up with himself and the entire situation. “No, it’s not, I just- I’m just distracted, recently. My fault.”

Matts looks a little concerned. “What, like a hockey thing?”

“No,” Mitch says, too fast. “No it’s. Personal.”

“Oh,” Auston says, and it’s like Mitch can see him retreating, this wall going up that he’s never had with Mitch, not since that day in the parking garage. He’s hurt, pretending not to be.

Mitch winces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah.”

This isn’t working. He was supposed to be making things better, not whatever this is. “It’s not ‘cause of _you_ ,” Mitch says, kind of pleading, but Auston scoffs, showing some kind of frustration for the first time.

“Then what, dude?” he asks. “You’ve been avoiding me since Montreal. If I did something-”

“You didn’t, Matts.”

“So what’s going on?”

“I-” Mitch starts then stops, stares at his feet. He can’t tell him the truth. He can’t.

But _Auston_.

The cars on the street below are too loud, the only sound. “Right,” Auston says, eventually. He sounds all withdrawn, short. “I should probably get going, anyw-”

“D’you believe in magic?” Mitch blurts, and Auston blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Answer the question.” Mitch says. His voice sounds too loud, heart’s pounding in his throat. “Please.” 

“I- No, Marns, I don’t believe in magic,” Auston says, in his ‘I’m going to stop humouring you any second’ voice, like when they’re joking with the guys and Mitch goes Too Far. “Do you?”

“I _am_ ,” Mitch says, and Auston stares for a second, not getting it.

“You are what?”

“Magic.”

The word hangs there between them, the biggest thing Mitch has ever done, it feels like. He can't believe he actually did that, told someone. That’s rule number one, the first thing his parents told him after he learned about his Luck, and he just broke it. It’s this weird rush, like ding-dong ditch when he was eight years old. _He told someone._

He laughs, despite himself, says it again just because he can: “I’m magic, Aus.”

He’s never told anyone, before.

Auston’s still watching him, expressionless. “You’re magic,” he repeats, after a million years.

Mitch nods, talks so fast his words blur together. “It’s, like- it’s a family thing, okay, so every youngest child is Lucky, and my whole life stuff just has this way of working out, doing what I want, except recently I can kind of make more stuff happen which is why I was stressed, ‘cause it’s- yeah, what I said. Magic.”

“Wow,” Auston says, after Mitch stops to breathe. “Okay. You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” Mitch says. So Matts doesn’t believe him- fine. That’s normal. “I swear, dude, let me- I’ll prove it,” he says. “Like- okay, I really, really want fireworks to happen.” He thinks it really hard, squeezes his eyes shut and pictures the explosions of coloured lights in the sky. 

Nothing happens.

_Come on,_ he thinks, _just this one thing, please_ , but there’re no fireworks, and when he reopens his eyes, Auston’s a couple feet back, holding onto the door handle like it’s a lifeline. 

“Mitch,” he says, looking vaguely horrified.

He’s never, ever looked at Mitch like that before, like there’s something wrong with him. It’s this scary feeling, right in the pit of his stomach.

“Okay,” Mitch says, keeping his voice steady. “So I can’t always control it, but I swear I’m telling the truth. Just- come.” He grabs Matts’ arm, tugs ‘til he follows Mitch back inside. He doesn’t make it easy, all reluctant like he’s scared to do anything in case he sets Mitch off. 

“Marns,” he says, “you’re being weird.” 

Mitch ignores him, marches them into the kitchen and looks around for something helpful. His gaze lands on the big knife block that he bought at Pottery Barn because it looked cool. 

So- fine. His Luck has a flair for the dramatic.

He crosses the kitchen, pulls out the biggest knife from the block, and presses it into Auston’s hand.

“Okay,” he says, taking a step back. “Throw it.” 

Auston looks at him like he’s insane. “I’m not throwing a _knife_ at you,” he gapes.

Mitch rolls his eyes. “Will you just do it, please? I know you can throw.” And he means that last part as a chirp, because he loves giving Matts shit for almost choosing baseball, that’s just what they do, but Auston doesn’t look in the mood. He looks the opposite of in the mood, kind of panicked, actually.

“Stop it, dude. This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Mitch says, and mimes throwing something. “C’mon.”

“Oh my god,” Auston says, slow, like it’s just dawning on him. “You’re having a breakdown.” It occurs to Mitch that he maybe should have planned this out better.

Auston’s holding the knife behind his back, talking mostly to himself. “I know we’re supposed to talk about mental health and shit, but I really think I need to call your parents, or a doctor, or someone-”

“I’m not crazy, Matts,” Mitch interrupts, and steps forward, impatient. “Just- ugh, give me the knife.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Auston says, and puts himself in Mitch’s way before he can reach around him to grab the handle.

Mitch can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. “No one’s going to get hurt, I told you, I’m lucky-”

“You’re not- do you hear yourself, right now, the words you’re saying?” he demands, and has to react fast when Mitch tries to snatch the knife out of his hands. “Just- Mitch, stop!” 

Mitch tries to push past him, which is a bad idea by almost any standards, since Auston’s got forty pounds on him and probably thinks he’s saving Mitch’s life or something. Really, just not fair.

“Let- go-” Mitch grunts, scrabbling to get past Auston, and then Auston loses his grip on the knife and it falls, right towards where they’re standing.

It buries itself in the floor, standing straight up a hair’s width away from Mitch’s bare foot.

There’s a beat, both of them just staring at it, then Mitch looks at Auston, pointed. Auston’s already shaking his head.

“That’s a coincidence,” he says, even as he’s staring at the knife, shaken. “That’s not proof of anything.”

Without hesitating, Mitch sticks out an arm and sweeps the entire knife block off the counter, right towards himself. 

“Shit!” Auston leaps back, wincing at the sound of metal hitting the floor as the knives go flying. He’s got both his hands in his hair like he does before a game, looks as freaked as Mitch has ever seen him. “Okay, you know what, fucking- _no_. I don’t know what this is, but-”

“Matts-”

“No,” he says, “No, this is not okay, you’re having some kind of- of _episode_ -”

“Auston!” Mitch says, sharp. “Look.”

He does, and Mitch watches him; watches the look on his face as he takes in the scene.

A couple more knives are embedded in the floor by Mitch, most of them having skidded across the kitchen, wedged harmlessly under drawers or the oven. There’s not even a scratch on him, which shouldn’t be possible, in a kitchen this size.

The knife block itself is completely broken in half, a piece lying on either side of Mitch like it snapped right above him, in midair. It’s made of marble.

“I’m not fucking with you,” Mitch repeats, firm, and Auston is backed up against the counter, staring at him like he’s never seen him before, and that’s when fireworks go off outside.

Mitch glances out the window, knows that Auston can see the spirals of blue and white light, that there’s no way it could be a car backfiring or anything other than what it is. And it’s like his draft day all over again, looking down at his tie, never really a question.

There’s a long moment where neither of them speaks, nothing but the sound of fireworks. Then:

“Holy shit,” Auston says, faint, and sits right down on the kitchen floor.

Mitch could almost laugh, if this wasn’t the most dead serious thing he’s ever done. The look on Auston’s _face_. Mitch didn’t think he was capable of being this unchill.

The not laughing thing is probably a good call, because Auston is maybe a little in shock. He’s just sitting there, and his mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he looks up at Mitch. “You’re magic?”

Mitch nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, leaves the couple of feet between them like a buffer. “Are you freaking out?”

“Just a little,” Auston says, really calm except for the fact that his voice is maybe three octaves higher than usual. It’s impressive – Mitch can only tell he’s a little hysterical because he knows him so well.

He does know him, though, and he looks so lost, sitting there on Mitch’s floor, that Mitch can’t help but close the distance between them, crouching down next to him and putting a hand on his back. Auston kind of flinches but doesn’t pull away.

It takes a long time, but eventually he peeks over at Mitch, still wary. Mitch can tell he’s working hard to keep it together. “Are you, like. Immortal?”

Mitch can’t help but laugh a little, at that. “Dude, no. This isn’t a Twilight thing.”

“I figured _that_ ,” Auston says, offended enough to sound almost normal. “But if nothing can hurt you-”

Mitch picks up the nearest knife, presses a fingertip to the edge while Auston watches. A spot of red appears, tiny, but growing.

“Stuff can hurt me,” he says, staring at the little bead of blood on his finger. “It’s not so much that bad things _can’t_ happen, more that good things do.”

“Shit,” Auston says again, and he grabs Mitch’s hand, examining the blood from every angle like he thinks it’s going to be fake. “I- jesus.”

Mitch watches Auston watching him, pulls his hand back real careful, suddenly self-conscious. This is the part he was afraid of, why he thinks his parents told him never to tell anyone. “I’m still just me, Matts.”

There’s this terrible few seconds of silence where every worst case scenario flies to the forefront of Mitch’s brain – Matts is going to hate him, Mitch is going to get thrown off the team and into some psychiatric hospital or sterile lab and never get to play hockey again – except then Auston kind of sighs.

“Except fucking magical,” he says, and he still doesn’t sound okay, exactly, but he doesn’t sound _bad_ either. Not even as scared as before.

“Except hella fucking magical,” Mitch agrees, and when he smiles at Auston, tentative, Auston returns it.

And all things considered, Mitch thinks, that could have gone a lot worse.

There’re still fireworks going off outside while they clean up the knives and what’s left of the block. Mitch kind of doubts he’ll be able to crazy glue marble back together, ends up just shoving both pieces into the back of his pantry. Future Mitch’s problem, now.

They end up sitting on opposite ends of Mitch’s couch, and Auston’s still looking kind of dazed, so Mitch does what he does best and talks. He explains the whole youngest Marner thing, how it’s been getting passed down as long as anyone can remember, how the Luck works.

“It’s not, like, exact?” he finishes up. “And it’s only stuff directly linked to me, not just whatever I want, ‘cause otherwise the Leafs would’ve won the cup before now. That’d be a really big thing, anyways, I normally can’t do those.” He doesn’t mention the fact that it’s possibly getting stronger and more rogue. Probably enough for Matts to deal with, tonight.

Auston’s been pretty quiet, but now he looks at Mitch, asks, “So how people keep paying for your drinks...”

“Yep,” Mitch says.

“And when they lost all our luggage except yours.”

Mitch nods.

“Is that-” Auston starts then stops, stares at his feet.

“What?”

Matts shakes his head, kind of embarrassed. “It’s kind of a dick question.”

“You’re allowed,” Mitch says, even though he thinks he knows what it’s going to be.

It takes a couple of seconds, but Auston meets Mitch’s eyes and asks, only a little hesitantly, “Is that why you’re good at hockey?” 

Mitch shakes his head, certain about this, at least. “No, dude. I mean, it maybe helps, a little, but it can’t help me do stuff I couldn’t already do. I promise.” 

And it’s a little ridiculous, sure, but Auston looks visibly more relaxed after that, like he can maybe deal with magic being real as long as Mitch still has sick dangles. Mitch gets it. Hockey’s sacred ground, for them. 

He reaches out and nudges Matts’ thigh with his toes, waits for it and smiles when Auston nudges him back.

Auston drums his fingers on Mitch’s heel. “Who else knows?”

“My family,” Mitch says. “You.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Mitch says, and then, because it’s pretty important and he probably should’ve mentioned this before: “And, listen, you _really_ can’t tell anyone, ever, because I’d probably get kicked out of the league and experimented on by a bunch of government dudes in lab coats-”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Auston says, utterly serious, and it’s all at once the most ridiculous and most endearing thing Mitch has ever seen. His heart swells. Auston knows he’s magic and still has his back.

Mitch chirps him, ‘cause the alternative is saying something super sappy. “You gonna fight off the entire government, Matty?”

Even Auston cracks a smile, at that. “Yeah, man. Drop the gloves, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Mitch corrects, and Auston rolls his eyes.

“You’re so _Canadian_ ,” he bitches, but he _knows_ , and they’re joking about it, and he’s still got one hand resting on Mitch’s ankle, almost protective, and it’s like-

Mitch thinks he made the right call, on this one.

\-------

It’s nicer than Mitch expected, having someone know. Like he never really realized how much went into keeping the magic thing a secret until he doesn’t have to. Or, okay, he does, but now Matts is there to exchange knowing grins and elbow him when an impossible-angled shot goes in at practice.

As the season goes on, Mitch plays with his magic, pushing at the limits like he hasn’t since he was a kid. It’s partly because he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, partly because, in spite of himself, he wants to _know_. His Luck’s always been this abstract, kind of distant thing, but now, if he concentrates, he can feel something. Like this sort of – god, he doesn’t know, this blobby thing, like silly putty, that he can push at.

It’s fucking weird. Mostly invisible, if a feeling can be invisible. Matts doesn’t push him to talk about it, just sits on Mitch’s couch after practice and watches Mitch try to will his microwave to turn off or on; picks cards out of a deck and has Mitch guess. He gets it on the first try nine out of ten times, on the second or third try the other one.

So it’s just. It’s nice, okay? Having someone in this with him. Having Matts in this with him. Like- it’s not just hockey. They’re _team_. 

Mitch should probably realize sooner than he does that he loves Auston, is the point.

It’s almost anticlimactic, when it happens. They're sitting on the bench, waiting for their next shifts against the Sens, and Auston leans his head on Mitch’s shoulder, just for a second. It’s a nothing little gesture, and he’s done it a million times, but tonight it’s like, _oh_. It's just this quiet thing in his chest; not a weight, exactly, not even really scary. Just- they're best friends, this easy, meant-to-be thing on and off the ice that doesn’t leave room for questioning.

So of course Mitch loves him.

\-------

Leafs PR gets it in their heads that they need to show the team being involved in city life. That, apparently, means getting the rookies and a camera crew to walk around the Christmas market; which in turn means that Mitch has to suffer through four hours of awkward on-camera Auston before the crew finally decides to take pity on them and call it a day.

Zach and Willy dip pretty quick, ‘cause the sun’s starting to go down and it’s bitter cold. Auston goes to follow them, but Mitch grabs his elbow.

“Wait,” he says. “Come help me find a Christmas present for my mom?”

Auston agrees easy enough, even though Mitch knows he hates the cold more than anything. The two of them don’t really say no to each other. It’s whatever.

They get hot chocolate to go from the expensive place in the market, walking past all the weird artsy sculptures and street musicians, window shopping at all the little boutique stores. The present-buying thing was mostly an excuse for Mitch to stay out with Auston, but if Auston gets that he doesn’t bug Mitch about it, just goes where Mitch leads and lets their sides bump together a little too often to be accidental.

It starts snowing after a while, these big, fluffy flakes. It’s the kind of snow that sticks, perfect for snowmen and forts. Without really thinking about it, Mitch steps out of the way of the rest of the people walking, next to the musicians on the corner, and sticks his tongue out to catch snowflakes.

Auston gives him shit for it, ‘cause it’s basically his best bro duty, laughing, “You’ve seen snow before, dude.” 

“But look how nice it’s coming down,” Mitch says, tongue still out so he’s mostly incomprehensible. “You know you wanna try.”

“I fucking don’t,” Matts laughs, but Mitch wags his tongue out, scrunches up his face right at him. “You’re such a kid,” Auston chirps, but he’s still smiling like he can’t help it, and eventually sticks his tongue out – just a tiny bit, but still – and leans back to catch the snow. 

It makes Mitch happier than it has any right to, seeing Auston like that. Like- it’s frankly unfair levels of adorable, and he’d take a picture if it wouldn’t be weird, but it would, and he doesn’t want this moment to end, wants to keep it special. God, he could _live_ in this.

It’s easier, since they’ve been practicing, for him to find his Luck. He looks at Auston standing there, catching snow, and pushes at the edges of his magic, testing how far he can go.

It takes a while to pick it out because of how different it sounds on acoustic guitar, but then the chorus hits and it’s unmistakeable: the musicians on the corner, on both corners, are playing ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’.

Mitch doesn’t wait to see Matts’ reaction, just squeezes his eyes shut and focuses. _C’mon_ , he thinks, _for Matts_.

Some of the people around them kind of gasp, and when Mitch opens his eyes, he sees why: all of the lights on all of the trees and lampposts are on, twinkling different colours in time with the music. And he’s always been magic, sure, but this, surrounded by lights and snow and their song, is the first time he really feels it.

Auston’s spinning where he stands, slow, taking it all in. “Are you doing this?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at Mitch, excited like a like a little kid, the way he never is in public.

Mitch tries for a coy shrug, is probably smiling too big for it to really work. “Helping it, maybe.”

Matts laughs at that, this perfect, happy thing. “Showoff,” he chirps, but his eyes are bright, and when he scoops up a handful of snow to toss at Mitch, it’s this silly, easy thing.

“Oh, you’re so on,” Mitch says, crouching down to grab his own ammunition. “Prepare to die, desert boy.”

“I lived in Switzerland,” Auston challenges, laughing, and takes the handful of snow that Mitch flings right in the face. He splutters, shocked at the cold, and Mitch knows he’s smiling too big, can’t help but laugh ‘til his stomach hurts, anyways.

It takes twenty minutes and at least a dozen more snowballs, but eventually Auston gets a picture of the lights that he deems worthy of instagram and they find their way out of the increasingly crowded market. The streets are still busy, but less so; quiet enough that they can make their way to this old park without anyone stopping them. It’s all white, covered in a blanket of fresh snow, and they have to brush off of the swings so they can sit. The cold is seeping through Mitch’s jeans anyways, freezing, and the rusty metal chains creak ominously when he swings.

It’s pretty perfect.

“I’ve never done that much before,” he admits, kind of giddy, and leans back in his swing to stare up at the sky. “That was, like, Harry Potter shit, right?”

“Yeah, it was,” Auston says, grinning. His nose and cheeks are bright pink, and he’s hardly swinging, just dragging his feet along the ground while he rocks back and forth.

“I think I’m getting better at controlling it,” Mitch says, kicking his legs out so his swing shoots back. “Like- our practicing is working, dude, I don’t even know how to describe it. It was- I felt it there, my magic, and it felt like I could do whatever I wanted, even if I wanted something super impossible. It was fucking amazing.” 

He doesn’t realize that he’s rambling ‘til it occurs to him that Matts has been pretty quiet; once that occurs to him, it occurs to him that Auston’s just looking at him, staring with this expression Mitch can’t quite place.

“What?” Mitch laughs, kind of embarrassed by his gushing. He blinks at the snowflakes landing in his eyelashes. 

“You’re amazing, Marns,” Auston says, simple, and he’s closer than he was before, has his swing turned around so they’re looking right at each other.

Mitch sees it coming the second before Auston kisses him. 

He finally recognizes the look on Auston’s face, and his stomach does a million backflips at once because he knows that look, _does_ that look every time he glances at Auston.

“Thanks,” he says, a million years later, when he remembers to respond; he has another sentence on the tip of his tongue, only he doesn’t get to say it because Auston leans in and presses his lips to Mitch’s.

There’re a few perfect seconds where Mitch is as happy as he can ever remember being, happier than when the Leafs picked him, even, because he’s got a hand on either side of Auston’s face and Auston tastes like hot chocolate and, even better, he’s kissing him Mitch the way he’s been wanting for _ages_ and-

Mitch recoils so forcefully he falls backwards off his swing, clasps a hand over his mouth and actually gasps, sharp in the cold air.

He’s been wanting for ages. 

This was _him_.

It’s like a million things flashing in front of his eyes at once, Coach Rob changing his mind; Ava Fiorello pulling back all scared; Auston looking at Mitch like he doesn’t look at anyone else, like Mitch is special, and how did Mitch not realize ‘til now, how did he think Auston would ever want _him_ if Mitch’s magic wasn’t making him?

Auston half looks like he wants to laugh, one hand extended to help Mitch get up. “Marns, what-”

“Stop,” Mitch says, still on the ground. “Stop.”

Auston’s still kind of smiling, like it hasn’t hit him yet, but his brow’s furrowed, right in the middle. “I thought...” he says, and Mitch shakes his head, keeps one hand over his mouth.

“You don’t want me, Matts,” he says, horrified, and Auston frowns, hard, like this is just someone else telling him he can’t do something just for the sake of it.

“You don’t choose what I want,” he says, all stubborn, and Mitch lets out this tiny, mostly-hysterical little laugh because he _does_ , that’s the problem, and Auston doesn’t get it. He has to get out of here, he has to get his mind off this so Auston will snap out of it-

The look on Auston’s face has softened while Mitch thinks, and he gets up from his swing, clambering over to crouch down next to Mitch on the snowy ground.

“Hey,” he says, and Mitch is shaking his head because he can’t look at Auston, not when he sounds like this, knows he’ll cave. “Hey,” Auston says again, so earnest it hurts, and tugs Mitch’s hand down, waits for him to meet his eyes. “Marns, I get that you’re scared.” He strokes a thumb over Mitch’s knuckles, gentle like Mitch has never seen him, and kind of laughs. “I get it, ‘cause I am too, but this- you and me, we’re- I want this.”

He sits there, on his knees in an old park, snow falling around him like something on a Christmas card, everything Mitch wants. It’d be so, _so_ easy.

He can’t. He can’t let Auston want him like this, knowing it’s not his choice.

“But I don’t want _you_ ,” Mitch says, and yanks his hand out of Auston’s grasp, and this time Auston just stays there, stunned. Mitch makes himself shrug as casual as he can. “I mean, I love you in, like, a bro way? But other than that... You’re not my type, Matty.” 

Mitch isn’t brave enough to look at Auston’s face ‘til he’s done, and regrets looking the second he does. Auston’s staring at him, completely heartbroken; worse, though, Mitch sees him schooling his expression, pulling back and closing off. 

“Sorry,” he says, and Mitch was wrong, _this_ is the worst, ‘cause Auston can lie with his face but not his voice. He sounds small. “Sorry, I guess I. Misread stuff.”

If Mitch talks, he’s going to say something he’ll regret. _Make him go_ , he thinks, and pushes out with everything he has, isn’t even surprised when he sees headlights pulling up to the curb, maybe twenty feet away, the familiar yellow and black of a taxi.

“You should go,” Mitch says. “Please.”

Auston looks at the cab then back at Mitch, inscrutable. “Did you...”

“ _Please_ ,” he repeats, and Auston does, after a second; getting to his feet really slow and trudging away.

Mitch sits there, watches him leave, then gets to his feet and walks to the nearest bus stop like he’s in a dream. The driver gives him a few looks like he thinks he maybe recognizes him from somewhere, but Mitch just looks at his lap, and no one asks him for a selfie or autograph or anything all the way back to his place. ‘Kid with muddy jeans and snow in his hair’ doesn’t exactly scream star athlete, probably.

He waits for the elevator, gets up to his apartment and puts his shoes by the door, then lies down in bed without changing into pajamas. It’s only then that he starts crying, these big, awful sobs that go through his body and make him curl in on himself.

Matts looked at him like Mitch was someone he didn’t even recognize. 

If this is being lucky, he doesn’t want it.

\-------

“How can I get rid of it?” he asks as soon as his dad picks up the phone the next morning, before even ‘hello’.

“Mitch?” his dad says, kind of foggy, like he just woke up. He maybe did just wake up, because it’s barely half past six. “What’re you-”

“My magic, Dad,” Mitch interrupts, desperate. “How can I get rid of it? It’s your family thing, you know this stuff, right?”

He can hear a creak as his dad sits up in bed, knows he’s rubbing his temples like when Mitch used to wake him up at four AM on Christmas morning. “Mitch, slow down,” he says. “I don’t think you _can_ get rid of it, it’s- why would you want to?”

“It made me lose Matts,” Mitch says, and it puts this lump in his throat but he keeps going. He’s all cried out. “I don’t want this anymore, I want to be normal.” 

“Oh, buddy,” his dad says, after this long silence. 

“It’s not _fair_ ,” Mitch says, and his voice breaks, so, fine, turns out he was not, in fact, cried out. It doesn’t matter – he made his mind up last night. If his dad won’t help him, he’ll do it himself. The Luck thing is some kind of curse, he figures, and he’s seen movies. Curses can always be broken.

\-------

Mitch hasn’t been in a library since he was a kid, hasn’t picked up a non-school book in probably too long. He’s not school-smart, really, but he googles where the closest library is and marches in there on their next off day, grabs as many books as he can from the Fantasy section, and gets started making a list.

Curse Breaking Ideas numbers one through fifteen all come from this series about witchcraft. Mitch isn’t entirely sure his Luck is this kind of thing, because it all seems very nature-y, but he tries burning sandalwood and saying all these weird incantations anyways, to no effect. Ideas sixteen to twenty involve him calling every church within an hour’s drive and asking what their policy on exorcisms is. Most of them seem to think he’s a prank caller, and he doesn’t push it. Idea twenty one is true love’s kiss, which is in, like, a ridiculous number of kids stories but nothing more concrete. Mitch thinks it’s probably safe to ignore that one.

When he runs out of suggestions at the public library, he texts a couple of the guys from juniors who go to U of T and gets them to lend him their log-ins for a bunch of online journals. The articles use so many big words in tiny fonts that it makes Mitch’s eyes hurt, but he downloads anything that looks remotely helpful and reads it whenever he gets a chance – between practices, when they’re travelling, after a game when he can barely keep his eyes open. 

The guys know something’s up, because aside from the initial chirping – “Hey, I didn’t know you could read, Marns.” – they keep checking on him, being extra nice like they’re trying to see who can be the most overprotective. And usually Mitch’d be lapping up all the attention, but even that’s ruined, now, because he can’t stop wondering how much of it is because of him and how much is because he’s magically brainwashing them into liking him. He can’t _tell_.

It kind of comes to a head when Mo comes over after they play Buffalo and says, quiet and confidential, “You alright, Mitchy?” And it’s really, really not Mo’s fault, he’s just trying to be nice, but his voice or the game or the fact that Mitch was up ‘til three AM reading about ancient voodoo (Idea 168) is some kind of last straw, because Mitch shrugs him off, sharp. 

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” he snaps, and goes to pull on his left shoe, only he pulls a little too hard because he sends himself off balance, teetering over.

Willy catches him before he can fall.

“Woah,” he laughs, righting Mitch. “That was lucky.”

And Mo’s still looking at him all concerned, and he can see Matts watching from a couple stalls down and Mitch just has to not be here, right now, so he puts on his shoe and grabs his hoodie.

“Thanks,” he says to Willy, and then, to Mo, “Sorry.” He books it out before either of them can say anything else, is too aware of Auston looking at him the whole time, like a kicked puppy.

He finds a chocolate bar in his hoodie’s pocket when he’s leaving, the world’s shittiest consolation prize.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he yells at whoever’s listening, as if his stupid Luck even can listen, and throws the chocolate bar at the nearest wall. Then he picks it up and puts it in an actual garbage can, because he’s been getting to know a lot of the ACC janitorial staff and they don’t need him making extra work for them.

Still. Thought that fucking counts.

He’s all set to march through the front doors when someone calls out behind him. “Wait up!” Mitch turns around right away, because he knows that voice – Matts is jogging towards him from the direction of the locker room. “You forgot your keys,” Auston says, holding them out for Mitch.

Mitch pats his pockets. They must’ve fallen out. “Hey, thanks,” he says. He really, really hopes Auston didn’t see the ‘yelling at a chocolate bar’ thing. That’s maybe a new low.

Auston shrugs. “I got you.”

Their eyes meet and Mitch is on the verge of making some joke, except then Auston’s dropping his gaze, subdued like he’s been since that night and it’s like. Oh. Right.

He keeps forgetting they aren’t really talking.

It’s not Auston’s fault. He’s trying so hard to be normal that Mitch can feel it, kind of feels bad for the painful awkwardness that exists despite his efforts.

“So,” Auston says, finally. They’ve been looking at each other for too long – any other time, they’d be leaving together. “I’m going to head back.”

“Right, yeah,” Mitch says. “Thanks. Again.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, and makes a truly pathetic attempt at a smile before leaving. It tugs on something in Mitch’s chest, watching him walk away, knowing that he’d turn back if Mitch asked him to. He just- he misses him. Misses _them_ , when they were easy.

He has to break this spell.

\-------

Mitch wakes up with a start when the TV beeps, loud.

It takes him a second to orient himself. He’s sprawled on his couch, face-first in a printout he’d been reading about blood magic – Idea 245 – with the TV still on in the background. He sits up, slow, peels the paper away from his face. The news anchor lady is still talking where he forgot to shut her off.

“...meteorologists are predicting the worst storm of the year, residents of Toronto along with Halton, Peel and York regions are warned to remain indoors...” She’s looking at the camera, all serious, half-cut off by the extreme weather alert scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Mitch rubs his eyes, trying to shake out the last bit of sleep. They’ve got practice tomorrow afternoon, he wanted to finish reading this before then. ‘Course, he might not have to – when he glances out the window, all he sees is white. It’s a full-on blizzard. He wonders if the NHL has snow days.

“Focus,” he says out loud, and makes it two sentences into the article when there’s another loud beeping noise. He thinks it’s the TV again, at first, but it happens again, and he realizes that it’s his buzzer. Someone’s downstairs.

He considers ignoring it, but pulls himself off the couch, heads over to the little intercom. He never uses this thing. Usually people just text him.

He hits a button at random. “Hello?”

“M-Marns?” It takes him a second to recognize the voice.

“Wha- Matts? Dude, why are you outside, there’s a huge storm.”

“I noticed,” Auston says, all tinny over the intercom. “Can I c-come up?” He sounds weird, but Mitch presses the button again to let him up without even thinking about it. “Thanks,” Auston says, and then the line goes dead and Mitch has the length of a six story elevator ride to freak the _fuck_ out.

They haven’t been alone together since that night. 

He opens his door in time to see Auston about to knock, and can’t help but gasp.

“Dude, what happened to you?”

Auston’s standing there, utterly soaked through with snow that hasn’t quite melted yet. There’re little snowflakes sitting in his hair and clinging to his pants up to almost his knees, a literal icicle hanging from his hair.

“S-sorry,” Auston says, teeth chattering so much Mitch can hardly understand him. “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Shit, Matts,” Mitch drags him into the apartment, worried, tugging him out of his coat and hat without really thinking. He knows Auston doesn’t like the cold, can’t imagine what would’ve made him go out on the coldest day of the year, let alone stay out ‘til his lips are blue.

“My car r-ran out of gas,” he says, leaning on the wall to step out of his shoes. “Even though I just filled the tank, and m-my phone died, even though I was just charging it, and I swear I wasn’t-” He cuts himself off with a shiver that goes through his whole body. “-I wasn’t even near here but I got out to go g-get help and then I was right out front.”

“Okay,” Mitch says, head spinning. “Okay, we need to make you warm.”

There’s a little puddle of melted snow where Auston’s standing, and he’s still shaking, but he goes easy enough when Mitch pulls him towards his bedroom.

“Here,” he rummages through his dresser drawers, pulls out the biggest hoodie and sweatpants he can find. “Put these on, I’m going to put up the heat.”

He leaves Auston to get undressed – to get _dressed_ , he’s not thinking about Auston without clothes, Christ – and heads for the thermostat, cranks it up as high as it can go. Then he stops by the linen cabinet by the bathroom, makes a mental note to thank his mom for making him fill it with extra blankets. He’s not sure how many blankets this situation calls for, exactly, so he just grabs all of them and heads back to his bedroom.

Auston’s standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch anything. The sweatpants end somewhere above his ankles, and the sweater has Mitch’s name and number on it, and he’s not going to pretend like Matts in his clothes isn’t the literal stuff of dreams, because it is, but-

“You’re still shivering,” Mitch says, and nods over to the bed. “Sit.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Matts,” he says. “Sit.”

Auston sits. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, reaches out for the comforter almost despite himself. “Can I-”

“’course,” Mitch says, and busies himself piling blankets on top of Auston while he climbs under the big duvet. He’s not sure if there’s a line somewhere, like ‘This Many Blankets Is Too Many Blankets’, so he just covers Auston with all of them ‘til he’s only a head peeking out. At least he’ll be a non-hypothermic head, Mitch figures.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do I need to get anything, or-”

“I’m fine,” Auston says, only a little unsteady. He sounds more exhausted than anything else, like he’s thirty seconds from falling asleep.

“Okay,” Mitch says, still kind of running on instinct. “Move over.”

Auston does, automatic, before freezing when Mitch starts fluffing up a pillow on the free side of the bed.

“Are we...” he says, then trails off. Mitch gets it, anyways. 

“I want to make sure you don’t freeze and die or something,” he says, and it’s the truth, but it’s not all of it. Auston probably knows that, but he just holds up a corner of the blanket for Mitch, watches him while he lies down on the other side of the bed. 

Mitch doesn’t drop his gaze, just lies there and watches him right back. Auston’s eyes are fluttering, slow, like he’s struggling to keep them open. Mitch gets it: cold like tonight, it completely drains you.

“I think this might’ve been my fault,” he confesses, quiet, and Auston blinks at him, takes a second. 

“Like- magic?” he asks, and Mitch nods.

“I missed you,” he says, and it sounds all at once unbearably stupid, because they see each other every day. Auston doesn’t laugh at him, though. “I mean- I was missing you, so my magic. Yeah.”

“Oh,” Matts says, and reaches out under the covers so his toes are overlapping with Mitch’s. His feet are freezing. Mitch doesn’t move away.

He’s not allowed this.

“I missed you too,” Auston says, like it’s easy. And maybe it can be, just tonight, because Mitch lies there and watches Auston drift off into sleep, there in his bed. Follows him, soon enough. The last thing he’s aware of is Auston’s hand next to his, almost but not quite touching.

\-------

Mitch wakes up sweating and also half-suffocated. Those’re the first things he’s aware of, and the next thing explains why: he’s burrowed his way under the blankets next to Auston, and one of Auston’s arms is flung across his chest, dead weight. And, despite everything, it’s kind of funny. Between the two of them, he wouldn’t have picked Matts to be the sleep-cuddler.

He’s literally going to combust if he doesn’t move, though, so he does, lifts Auston’s arm and squirms out from under the layers of blankets as carefully as possible. Feels like he does a decent job of it, too, until he lies back down and realizes Auston’s awake, watching him through bleary eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, because the alternative is having an aneurysm because of how good just-woke-up Auston looks. “You can go back to sleep, I was just-”

“It’s fine,” Auston says. He sounds a million times better than last night, doesn’t make a move to get out from his personal blanket armada except to pet the tassels of the nearest knit throw. “You have a lot of blankets.”

“Yeah, well. You scared me, desert boy,” Mitch says, and he’s not expecting Auston to smile, but he does, kind of wryly.

“Sorry,” he says. “Next time I’ll just tell you I have magic powers or something chill like that.”

They exchange grins, these easy, sleepy things, and Mitch can see the moment that Matts starts to remember that things are weird with them, pulling back almost imperceptibly. His face falls, just a little. Enough to hurt.

Mitch is fucking sick of hurting him. Even more sick of not having him close, the way he got used to. He’s tried everything to fix this, and nothing’s worked, except-

But it’s stupid.

But he’s tried everything else.

“Matts,” he says, almost a whisper. “Can I try something?”

Auston nods. 

He stiffens when Mitch lifts a hand to cup his face, but doesn’t pull back, just lets out this little sigh when Mitch leans in and kisses him.

Mitch isn’t sure what makes a true love’s kiss different from other kisses. If it’s intent to break a spell, he’s got that; if it’s love, fuck, has he ever got that. It’s a complete shot in the dark, but he leans into it, gentle at first, then, when Matts starts kissing him back, deeper, harder.

Kissing him’s even better, the second time around. If any kiss was going to be magic, it’d be this one.

And nothing happens. 

He’d know, he thinks. Feel it, somehow, if he wasn’t lucky anymore. He doesn’t.

Mitch breaks off the kiss, pulls back to sit up against the headboard with this shuddery breath. This was his last hope, plan Z. He’s got nothing else.

Auston doesn’t move, lies there statue-still for too long to be an accident. 

“Marns,” he says, achingly careful, hopeful enough to kind of break Mitch’s heart. He props himself up on an elbow to meet Mitch’s eyes. “Why-”

“I thought,” Mitch says, not looking at him. “I thought if I kissed you it’d break my curse- my spell, whatever. Like in Disney movies.”

Auston sits up, shedding an avalanche of blankets. “You were trying to get rid of your magic?” he asks, incredulous. “Mitch...”

“It didn’t work,” Mitch says, and he can feel his lip trembling, embarrassing. “I- sorry, I just wanted-”

“You get whatever you want, Mitch,” Auston says, all aghast. “Why would you try to...”

Mitch meets his eyes, too honest, and he breaks off mid-sentence. They've always been able to get each other without speaking. 

“Me?” Auston asks, only it’s not really a question.

“Sorry,” Mitch says again, small, and Auston is staring at him, wide-eyed. They’re both cross-legged on opposite sides of the bed, too close for whatever’s passing between them.

It's a million years, more, before Auston talks. 

“You love me,” he says, quiet in that certain way he has. He doesn’t leave room to lie. Mitch shuts his eyes. 

“Matts, please.” 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Auston says, low and urgent. “Tell me I’m wrong and I swear I’ll never mention it again.”

And it’s so, so unfair – Mitch is the one with the magic, he’s the one who’s making Auston want him, but he’s just as fucking powerless. The way Auston says that, _tell me I’m wrong_ , like there’s ever been a chance Mitch could deny him a fucking thing.

“I can’t,” he says, and it comes out as a whisper.

“Mitchy,” Auston breathes, and laughs, all exasperated; happy, too, enough that he bridges the distance between them and kisses Mitch again, this jubilant press of lips, smiling against him. He laughs again too, this giddy thing that cuts like a knife, leaves their foreheads pressed together. “Mitch, I love you too, why aren’t we-”

“You don’t,” Mitch says, shaking his head without pulling back. “You don’t, though, or- you wouldn’t-”

“I do-”

“Only because I want you to, Auston!” He’s got a hand bunched up in Auston’s shirt, clinging, desperate. “My Luck works on people,” he says, because if Matts is going to think he’s some kind of monster, he’d rather it come sooner than later. “They do what I want, and I wanted you, and it’s making you fall for me and you don’t even realize.”

He can see the wheels turning in Auston’s head, him trying to process that. He shakes his head. “That’s not true.” 

“You wouldn’t know, Aus,” Mitch says, pained. He has to make Auston get this. “People never know, it just happens, and I can’t- I can’t take advantage of you like that. It’s _wrong_.”

“You’re- that can’t be true, Mitch,” Auston says, but he doesn’t sound certain, this time. He’s looking at Mitch, wide-eyed and unsure, and Mitch is going to crack under his gaze, start sobbing or run away or kiss him again, so he just sort of collapses against him, leans his head on Auston’s shoulder so he won’t have to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Auston’s arms come up around him, pulling him in, tight. They just sit there, holding on to each other, for long enough that Mitch loses track. He doesn’t know how to stop wanting Matts. Doesn’t know if he even _can_. They’re both going to be stuck like this forever, this wanting and not-having, and it’s all his fault.

“Since when?” Matts asks, out of nowhere, after it’s been silent for long enough that Mitch forgot they could talk.

“Since-” Mitch says. “What?”

Auston pulls back just a little, enough to meet Mitch’s eyes. “Since when did you want me? Like- when’d you start?”

This isn’t going to help anything. Mitch ducks Auston’s gaze, rubs at his eyes with his palms. “It doesn’t matter, Matts-”

“Answer the question,” Auston says. “Please.” And something in his voice is serious enough that Mitch does.

“I- I don’t know,” Mitch says, head spinning; but that’s a lie, because there was that moment on the bench, against the Sens, when everything changed. “November.”

“November,” Auston echoes, and there’s something in his voice that makes Mitch look up. When he does, he has to blink, hard, because-

Auston is _smiling_.

“Marns,” he says, “Marns, you asshole, I’ve been into you since August.”

Mitch stares.

That would mean-

If Matts liked him on his own, before Mitch wanted him to-

Everything feels vaguely surreal, like he’s in a dream. “You barely knew me in August.”

“And you spilled coffee on yourself to help me anyways,” Auston says, eyes soft. “And you talked to me like I was a normal person, and you looked, like, incredibly fucking good in blue-” and he doesn’t get to finish because Mitch is kissing him, hard.

“Oh my god,” he says without pulling back, this mess of lips and limbs, so close he thinks he can feel Auston’s heartbeat. “Matts, oh my god-” And he’s never been this deliriously happy, never once in his entire life, and they’re kissing again before he can verbalize that, Auston leaning in to capture his lips, smiling up against him.

And Auston’s hands are splayed on Mitch’s back, big and grounding and _his_ ; because they can have this, because he’s been wanting Mitch since _August_ -

“Really?” Mitch asks, pulling back one more time, still kind of disbelieving. “August?”

“Yeah,” Auston says, smiling so big his eyes crinkle, and Mitch laughs, a little dismayed.

“I could’ve been kissing you since _August_?”

“Yeah, you’re pretty fucking slow, dude,” Auston chirps, and Mitch laughs, this helpless, completely adoring thing, lifts his hands so he can run a thumb across Matts’ jaw.

“Matty,” he says, nonsensical, and Auston leans into his touch.

“I know,” he says.

Mitch kisses him one more time, drunk on the idea that he can. Kissing is fucking _awesome_. He never wants to stop doing this. “Dude, Matts, we’re so-”

“So what?”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Mitch finishes, and he really, really means it, doesn’t think he’s known what that word meant until today; and then Auston is tugging him in for another kiss, and he finally, finally gets it.

_Fireworks_ , Mitch thinks, and he can hear them going off outside, broad daylight and all.

Yeah, he’s got it. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- a fun little story about consent and magic and soft boys because why not  
> \- w h y n o t  
> \- potentially triggery: someone kisses Mitch because he (unknowingly) uses his gift to make her like him. once he realizes what happened, he is extremely upset/guilty at the lack of consent and goes out of his way to avoid any similar situations.


End file.
